To awaken, to truly come to understand the magical nature of the universe, and how that magic reacts and effects everyday life, is not the same as having an esoteric experience. A person's life can be filled with moments when magic interacts with them, filled to bursting, but if they never see those moments for what they are, then they are no more awake than the driest mundane. You cannot effect what you do not admit is there.
Version 4.0
by DarkWolf
(14,423 words)
Karen stared out of the playground, at the people milling past. Her fingers were threaded through the chain link fence, helping to hold her up. Helping to fight the need to run out there. She could feel it. She had never felt anything like it before. She had heard her mother, when reading books, talk about emotions washing over someone. Happiness, or sadness. She assumed that this must be what they meant. She could feel it in waves, crashing against her, trying to push her over. Trying to crush her. Loneliness.
Turning around she looked over the playground again. There were a half dozen other kids scurrying over the play equipment. They had told her to get lost. That she was too little. She was new in town and had not felt it worth arguing. There had been mean kids where they lived before too. Her mom was talking with the neighbor woman, Mrs. Haggarararar, She suspected she put too many ar's at the end, but it was fun to say. They were sitting on the bench, talking. Mom almost never looked up when she was talking. She wouldn't even notice that Karen was gone.
She was not planning to go far. The person had to be close. She didn't know why, but she was certain that for the waves to be this strong, this clear, he or she had to be practically on top of her. Just past that first row of people maybe? Another swarm of kids charged into the playground and Karen slipped out the front gate in the mayhem. He mother never looked up.
Almost a half hour later she found him. Blocks and blocks from where she had started. She had thought about turning around a million times. Every time she did, though, she thought about how much sadder the person felt the closer she got. How close she must be. How much pain he or she must be in. And so she had pushed on. She had not realized the park was so large. It seems to go on for miles. Blocks and blocks at least. Then, just when she thought she could not take another step, she saw him.
He was sitting alone on a park bench, underneath the shade of a giant tree. He was not talking to anyone. He did not seem to be looking at anything really. Just lost in his own thoughts. She walked up to him, surprised that he did not notice her approach. He was her mother's age, maybe a little older. His eyes were the blackest she had ever seen. His hair and clothes matched them, though, like a pile of shadow sitting there. In contrast, his skin was so pale she almost thought it marble. A life size statue sitting in the park. "Mister?" He made no move to indicate he heard her. She repeated herself, placing her hand on his knee. The moment their skin touched he nearly leapt from the bench. In a heartbeat he was recovered, however. He stared down at her as though she had bitten him.
He sat alone, lost in his thoughts. Lost in his memories. Lost to the humans milling past him like so many mindless bugs. He should not have tried to stay here. He should not have tied himself to one place. There was work to be done. How long since he had fulfilled his part of the pack? How long since he had hunted just to kill and not to feed? Less time than your siblings, the memories chided him. The last memory he had of speaking to his family they had implored him to give it up. Green eyes and red eyes staring up into his, begging him. The job was done they said. Learn to live again. He had screamed at them. Cursed them as fools. Told them that the only reason they could pretend to live normal lives was because he was still fulfilling his duty. Told them that they shamed the memory of their dead.
There had only been three of them then. Everyone else had died, or vanished. He had always assumed they died at the hands of those they hunted... he knew that some of them had. He had found the remains. But maybe not all of them. Maybe the others had been right. Maybe the ones who had just disappeared, maybe they left because they could not take the isolation any more. Maybe the others had been right. He would never know. That had been over three hundred years ago and the last time he had spoke to them, spoken to anyone, really, he had cursed them and told them he hated them.
Eventually he had come to agree with them. Agree in part, anyway. Maybe there were no more to hunt. Maybe his great mission was over. But by then it was too late. His family had vanished. No effort he made to contact them ever bore fruit. No sign was ever found of anyone trying to contact them. He was alone, and he had done it to himself. He wished he could cry.
He had tried to find a way to "live life" as they had suggested. To make peace with his time. It was no use. The humans were too different. He was too different. He could not look at them, see the fear in their faces, and not feel his hunger grow. They could not look up at this monster, a monster guised as a human, but clearly a monster none the less, and not be terrified. He had been created to inspire that terror. He had spent lifetimes honing his skill, such that they really did have reason to fear him. Far more reason then on those first confused feeding, so very very long ago. Back when he had a family. When he had a home. He put all of his hatred of what he had become into his kills, and that only made it worse. Made the cuts deeper. The screams louder. He was a monster, they were prey, and no companionship could be reached.
When he came to grips with the impossibility of becoming "one of them," he tried thinking of other ways to connect. Maybe if he stayed in one place? Got to know a culture, instead of a person? Maybe then? He had tried. It had all gone wrong. He had a home now. A house anyway. An apartment building. Due to his appetites, privacy seemed the wisest course. In that he owned it, he had full authority to keep it empty. Just him and his dining room. The dining room had been a stroke of genius on his part. If he was going to stay in one place, why catch meals in dark alleys behind clubs? Why not bring them home and eat at his leisure? He would need a way to keep them from running off, a way to keep the people passing outside from hearing their screams... but with enough time and enough tools anything was possible. He even had supplies for guest, on the off chance that family did appear.
They never had.
For the last eighty years he had had himself, his apartment, his dining room, and his neighborhood. He watched over it. Kept it safe. Only occasionally fed from it. Made sure no one else considered preying there. If people avoided him, it was for their own good. Don't mess with the man in flat twelve. He makes your skin crawl. They all knew that he was something to stay away from. Just as they all knew to keep their mouths shut. Once, thirty years ago, someone had wanted to tell on him. To tell the police about the stream of women that always seemed to be visiting him, but never leaving. The good samaritan had told his wife about his plans the night before he was going to tell the authorities. She had tried to tell him to mind his own business. That they were safe. That none of the women ever came from their neighborhood. He would not listen. The next morning she woke up to find his remains draped around the room. She had to be institutionalized. No one else ever considered talking.
But it had not helped. Eighty years he had stayed here, and watched. Eighty years and he felt more alone, more detached than ever. Where were they? Was he really the last? Why... He felt a hand upon his knee and nearly leapt out of his skin.
It was a girl. A young human girl. No more than five years old he was sure. Blonde-brown hair in pigtails, a round little face. Gray-blue eyes. She should not have noticed him, not in this crowd, not when he did not want to be seen. He so did not want to be seen. But she stared up at him, concern clear on her face, and he stared down at her, hating himself, waiting for the hunger to wash over him.
"Mister? Are you okay?"
The hunger didn't come. He looked into her eyes, confused. It had been days and days since he had last eaten. He had come to the park specifically to find a meal, and yet, looking at her, he was not hungry. He was not hungry, and she was not afraid.
"Mister?"
Who was she? Why was she talking to him? Was their something odd about her? Or was it just... could it be that simple? He had never had anything to do with children. The idea of feeding from a child repulsed him. Maybe that was in part because his system did not consider children food. He had always though it a product of his mind, maybe of his memories. Of having to witness... It did not matter. She was here. She was not afraid. That meant she was safe. But for how long? If she was safe, she would only be safe for so long. Children grew up. Once she was grown... once she was grown she would fear him.
"Mister? Can you hear me?"
He shook himself, pulling himself back to the present. Back to what needed doing. "Go away."
She pulled her hand off of his knee, but otherwise made no move to leave. "Why?"
Why? By the stars! Run, you fool! But she wouldn't run. She was very likely safe specifically because she wouldn't run. "Please."
He sounds so sad, she thought. But the loneliness had stopped. The moment her hand had touched him, the waves battering at her had vanished. And he looked more alive now. That meant she was doing the right thing, right? That she was helping?
He swallowed, a nervous motion that he had seen so many humans do. He had no idea how they found comfort from such. She wasn't leaving. "Please."
She batted her eyes at him, puzzled. "Do you need a friend?" She pulled herself up onto the bench next to him.
His mind was reeling. What! How! Leave! Please, leave! I don't want to hurt you. "Why won't you leave?"
She folded her hands in her lap, and then stared down at her shoes. "I'm new in town. Mom says I should make friends. You looked really sad. Like you needed a friend. Don't you want a friend?" There. That didn't tell him anything that he would laugh at her about, but still had it out in the open. She was sure he needed a friend. He probably didn't want to be friends with a little kid, but he didn't have to. He just had to know that there was someone out there willing to be a friend. She really wished her mom read her more fairy tales, like other kids, and not just a chapter or two of whatever she was reading herself that week. The words she picked up made the other kids think she was weird.
A friend? Could he really? Would he ever forgive himself? Would he ever be able to live with himself if he turned her down? "People don't want to be my friend. People avoid me. You should as well."
She turned to him, blue gray eyes burrowing into him. "Nobody likes me either. They all say I'm too small, or talk funny, or all sorts of mean things. People are mean." She shrugged. "It's just what they are." She added, "I still want to be your friend."
People are mean. She could say it so simply. Like it was something she had known since she was born. Maybe humans were born knowing it. But they had reason to avoid him. It was not the petty cruelty they handed to her, but a healthy fear. A fear she lacked. "Why?"
She shrugged, trying to think of something. Why was she pushing this? Why did she feel like she needed this friendship? Maybe because she didn't have another one? They had been living here over a month and not one friend. Then she had felt him calling out to her. They needed each other. "Please." She let her own loneliness show in her eyes, usually carefully hidden. "I need a friend, too."
He nearly laughed. She didn't know what she was asking. She... He looked into her eyes. So sad. So alone. So young. Could he do it? Could he really walk away from someone that needed him that much, even if it was for their own good? Was he that strong? Maybe he could be careful. Maybe he could break contact with her soon. A month from now. A year. Once she had some friends her own age. If he did it soon enough, she might get away. He might not feel drawn to hunt her. He might... With a sigh, he gave up.
They talked for the next hour. About what she thought of the city. About the weather. About the funny things people were wearing as they passed by. After an hour it occurred to him that someone ought to be looking for her. She paled.
"Mom! Oh no! I forgot all about mom!"
He reassured her that her mother was probably waiting were she left her. Was probably just expecting her errand to take longer. He didn't believe it, but he told her anyway.
"I'm not on an errand. I snuck off."
He wanted to laugh. Nearly an hour that they had been sitting here chatting. Who knew how long she had wandered around before she found him, or how many other folks she had approached before him. Her mother must be worried sick. "Where were you supposed to be?"
She told him, and he offered to lead her back. He was not expecting to go the entire way. He did not want to be seen by anyone who knew her. But likely her mother had all of the watch around the park on the look out for a girl of her description, so all he needed to do was get her close to the playground and she would be safe. The walk took less than fifteen minutes before they spotted someone on the watch for a girl her size. Just as he was about to shoo her along, toward the police officer, she turned to him and said, "I don't even know your name. My name's Karen."
He was silent for a moment, thinking about how to answer. Had he ever had a name? She was right to expect one. What could she call him? "I am Ala...." The rest of the sentence was cut off. The officer has spotted them on her own, and was calling out to Karen, who turned to look at her.
"Miss? Miss? Are you Miss Karen Richards?" The officer was likely no more than twenty. A cadet then. She smiled warmly at Karen as she took her by the hand and led her off to where her mother waited. When Karen turned around to thank her friend, he was no where to be seen.
From the shadows, under the trees, he watched them walk away. Followed them to make sure Karen stayed safe. Followed her and her mother until they reached home. Watched in secret as she was scolded by her father and comforted by her mother and sent to her room earlier than she expected. Then he watched as her mother and father got into a fight about how she had gotten out of sight in the first place. He only half paid attention to the words. Most of his attention was on Karen, silhouette just visible through her window, curled up under her covers, trying to hide from the fight. Trying to not hear. He could hear her heartbeat racing. Was this common?
He stayed, watching, until she fell asleep. Then he left to hunt. He knew who his target was. A pretty young cadet who had interrupted his conversation with Karen. It was rude to interrupt two friends when they were talking.
It would be months before he realized that he was being jealous.
They met often after that. At the park, or the zoo, or wherever. There was never a schedule to their meetings, but still they happened. Almost any time Karen was feeling lonely or bored, he would turn up. Not every time. He was not stalking her. But once he had something to do with his free time, he discovered that he had a remarkable quantity of it. One only needed to spend so much time eating. The rest of the time he spent watching her, and watching over her, usually unseen.
At the times when they actually met, no two visits were identical. One time Karen would show him what she had been doing at school. The next time she would teach him how to skip rope, marveling at how someone his age didn't know. She asked him what games he grew up playing. He lied and told her he could not remember. It was easier then explaining to her that he had been born the age that he currently was. That from his first waking moment he had had responsibilities, all be it responsibilities he had since abandoned for others. Easier to let her think him forgetful.
For two years they met like that. Blissful, ignorant years. He never thought about the consequences. About his intention to leave her after a month. Two years they met, randomly, sporadically. Then plans changed.
He was out hunting. It was late fall, just as the weather was starting to turn cold. He was patrolling the park. It was a preferred hunting ground, and not just for him. Human predators were common out here. He could see one in the shadows ahead of him, watching something. He stepped closer. A bench. There was a figure on the bench, huddled against the chill. It took him a moment to realize what he saw. When he did, he stepped into the lamp light, strolling straight for the bench. The night predator, what ever his intentions, turned away when he saw his silhouette. No one knew exactly who he was, but they all knew his outline. They all knew that only an insane fool came between him and his choice of subject.
"Karen, what are you doing out here?"
She jumped at the sound of his voice, then leapt up and hugged him. "Alan! I thought you wouldn't come..."
She had named him Alan after their first meeting. She thought that was what he had said. It was a good name. He never bothered correcting her. "You were expecting me?" They never met on a schedule. They never ever met this late at night. It was easily an hour after sunset. What was she thinking?
"Not exactly." She looked embarrassed. "I just hoped."
He took the seat next to her on the bench. "Why did you want to find me?"
She took a deep breath. "Mom and I are moving. Mom says we are moving out of the city. She says I will get a new school and I'll make new friends, and I don't want new friends. I want to be able to see you."
His heart skipped a beat. Moving? She was going away? "When are you leaving?'
"At the end of the week." She was so sad. He wanted to hold her, to rock her. Before meeting Karen he had never wanted to comfort anyone in his life.
"Do you know where you are moving?" Half of him hoped she would be near by. Half of him prayed for her sake that she was moving across the country.
"Fort something. I don't remember the name."
"Fort Lee?" he guessed.
She nodded. "That sounds right. Is it far?"
He laughed. "It's just over the bridge. If your mom would let you, you could visit the city on weekends."
"Do you think she would?"
"Sure." Her mother would let her. He could be very persuasive. He didn't even have to be violent. Just the sound of his voice often brought people over to his way of thinking. She would let Karen visit. She would think nothing of it. He would make certain. She likely would never remember their talk.
He sighed. "That leaves one more question, though."
She looked up at him, curious.
"Where are we going to meet?"
She looked around. "Here?" she asked.
He laughed, then somberly answered, "No."
She looked at him, confused.
"The park isn't safe at night, Karen. If I hadn't come by, I don't want to think about what might have happened." Really, he did not want to think about it. That fellow had already marked her and had been heading for her when he showed up.
"Then where should we meet?"
Where? It was a good question. Where would be safe? Safe? He wanted to cry. He knew a place that was safe. Safer than anywhere else in the city... for her. And once it wasn't safe for her... Well, it would be convenient for her to have shown up on her own two feet. He had already damned her by deciding to talk to her mother, hadn't he? "I know a place."
She came to his apartment like clockwork after that. Every Saturday afternoon. Every Wednesday after school. Every year. Year after year. As time went by, they moved from playing jump rope to baking cookies, from doing homework to watching cult classics on video. He relished every minute. He hardly noticed the time passing. Hardly noticed until it slapped him in the face.
It was late friday night. He had just finished his meal and was cleaning up his dining area before setting out. Karen would be arriving tomorrow. She always came like clockwork. A doorbell sounded overheard. His heart skipped. He had installed the bell for Karen, so that he could hear if she was outside, even when he was busy down here. She had her own key, letting her get into the lobby, but he did not want her wandering the apartment without him. In the early days he had not kept track of time as well as he ought to have. Sometimes he would be enjoying a snack when she arrived. The room was soundproof, so he did not have to worry about any screams getting out, disturbing their evening, but it had also meant it was difficult for the sounds of a knock to get in. Thus the doorbell. But it was the wrong day. Wrong night. Too late at light. He sprinted up the stair, to the entrance. Something was wrong.
He threw the door open in a panic. He forgot how to breath. She was sopping wet. He thought he could hear rain outside. She was crying. He could see the mascara running down her face. Her arm was bruised where someone had tried to pull her around. He would find that someone and skin them alive. She was wearing a tight dress, which was torn at the shoulder. She was wearing high heels. She was carrying a purse. She had grown up, and he had been to busy hoarding the moments, and now she was here and...
He invited her in. In response, she stumbled with her first step, and hugged him. Crying into his shoulder, she told him about Billy. Billy who had asked her out on a date. Billy who had taken her to dinner, then said they would go dancing. Billy who had said he would pay for the cab home. Billy who had tried to pull her into a back room in the club and who she had then kneed in the crotch. Alan steered her to the couch and asked her to sit there while he made her something to calm her nerves.
She sat on the couch, tirade continuing, telling him about how much of a fool she had been. How naive. How this was the worst night of her life. How she had not even known if he would be home, but that she had nowhere else to go. For his part, Alan busied himself in the kitchen, only half hearing her. He was too busy repeating the same thing. He had been such a fool. He knew that this would happen one day. He had expected it. But then he had stopped watching. And now it had snuck up on him. She was at least seventeen now, and it was going to be the worst night of her life. What if he had not been home?
Setting a mug of tea in front of her, he resolved to memorize Billy's scent. It was still strong on her, the bastard. The boy would not live through the night. He sat with her, holding her hand, stroking it, until she passed out. The herbs he had slipped into the tea had worked, though they took longer than he expected. He was not used to drugging people, but he did not want to drag her down there by force. Lifting her limp form in his arms, he carried her through the house. Down the hall, into his bedroom. He used his foot to foot to trigger the panel that revealed access to his basement door. Down the stairs, to the second door. He had to shift her weight to open this door, but she remained limp. He had given her enough that she should have stayed unconscious for at least ten hours... but then, she should have passed out within ten minutes, after the first few sips. He had held her hand for close to a half hour after she finished the mug. The girl had so much life in her. He laid her down gently, on the marble floor, using her arms to supply a rest for her head. Then he slipped out, barring the door behind him. There was no obvious door from the inside, but even if she found the right place to press, there would be no exit for her. She was his now. To keep.
He left. To hunt.
Karen had the strangest dream while she slept. She dreamed that she was in a chamber. The floor was white marble, the walls mirrored glass. There were eight walls. In the center of the chamber was a column of sorts. Four curtains which ran from floor to ceiling. One red, one green, one blue, one black. Each one held their color without a hint of fading, color as rich as gemstones. She did not look behind the curtains. The light was dim, a pale ghost of light from above. Looking up she saw the ceiling was a gigantic florescent light. It was so pale, so dim, it could have been a nightlight. Each of the walls was a single pane of glass, the floor a single slab of marble. In area, it stretched ten paces from end to end, with the column in the center taking up maybe two feet squared. Absently, she wondered why she would dream of such a place. Her head felt light, fuzzy. She laid down again, and returned to sleep.
Alan shook her shoulder, gently. "Karen. Karen, it is time to wake up."
Yawning, she stretched. "Alan?" Smacked her lips. "Did I fall asleep? I had the strangest dream, Alan." She opened her eyes, and stared.
Alan thought nothing of the stare. The room was quiet stunning. He gave her a few moments to absorb it all.
Real, she thought. Not a dream. "Where am I?"
He smiled. "What do you remember?"
She thought back. "I... I was upset. I came by your place. You made me tea. I..." She wrinkled her brow. "I don't know. I don't remember how I got here."
"I carried you."
"You..." She sat up straighter, looking at him. "You carried me?" She looked around, seeing the room again. "Why would you carry me here?"
He shrugged. "I figured if I carried you anywhere else, that you might escape."
Escape? "Why would I need to escape? It's not like I'm trapped or anything."
"Aren't you?"
She looked at him then. His voice... his voice didn't sound quite right. Not the kind, reassuring voice she had grown up with. For the first time, she realized that those cool black eyes could look menacing.
"Where is the door, Karen?"
She looked around. All of the walls looked the same. The same smooth glass. The same perfect seams. The same angle of reflection. She discovered a tremor had entered her voice when she asked, "What's going on?"
He blinked at her. A long lazy single bat of the eyes. Like a cat. "Guess."
She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. "Alan, this isn't funny. Why am I here? Where are we?"
He smiled at her, reaching out to stroke a lock of her hair. "So many questions." He let the hair fall through his fingers. His voice seemed to drone, "So many questions, and not one of them is the right one. You don't want to know where you are. You don't want to know why I brought you here."
The longer he stroked that lock of hair, the more she felt shivers running down her spine. This wasn't right. This wasn't like Alan at all. Why was he doing this? "What is the right question then?"
He stopped, and smiled at her. A predatory smile. "Ask me what is going to happen to you, now that you are here."
Her mouth went dry. Not Alan. This wasn't Alan. It was his face, his voice, his eyes. But it was not Alan. "What is going to happen?"
She had thought he was grinning before. Thought it, but it was nothing compared to the look that broke across his face now, filled his eyes, as he said, "Take off your dress."
She lay on the floor shivering. She had fought him. Fought him for all that she was worth. It had been like hitting a brick wall. He had pinned her arms up above her head, held her there like she weighed nothing, pinned to one of the walls, and torn through the fabric like it was tissue paper. Torn it to shreds. Her slip and her undergarments had been nothing after that. Then, letting her arms go, letting her drop to the floor, he had walked over to the curtains. Pulling the green curtain aside, he seemed to operate some lock she could not see, then swinging the panel wide, took out a steel bowl and matches. Dumping her clothes into the bowl, he set them on fire. She stayed huddled against the wall, trying not to watch. This wasn't happening. It wasn't. It was a nightmare. Another nightmare.
When the cloth had burned away, he carefully returned the bowl and matches to their home and drew the curtain closed again. Then he turned to her. Kneeling in from of her, in a remarkably gentle voice, he brushed his fingers against the bruises on her arms. She flinched at the touch, but there was nothing invasive about it. Just a touch.
"I am going to leave now. I suspect you are tired. The drug I gave you to help get you down here is still strong in your system, and I want you fully awake when the games actually begin. Sleep well." With that, he stood and left.
She watched in awe as he walked up to a mirror, seemingly at random, and touching it, just so. It swung in, letting him escape. As soon as he was gone she leapt to her feet, banging on the wall with both fists. "Let me out! You can't! Let me out!" It was no use. He did not answer. Try though she might, she could not find what he had done to open the door. It seemed a normal mirror, mounted to a wall. Walking to the curtains she thought to see if anything there might help. It was a single block cabinet, divided at the diagonals into four chambers. The one behind the black curtain held knives, whips, ropes, a blind fold, and a gag. The were also piles of piping laid out on the floor of the case, some straight, some curved. She could not imagine the use of those. The sapphire curtain held oils and herbs. The ruby curtain held... she shivered. A whip that was studded with metal teeth. A set of clamps that looked like they could tear through skin. A length of barbed wire. Behind the emerald curtain was the matches, the bowl, some candles, some feathers, a decorative half-mask. She stared in wonder at it all. Not that they were such strange objects, in and of themselves. It was just... The cabinet was solid glass. There was no hinge. There was no lock. There was no way for him to have ever removed that bowl. That bowl which held no ash, no sign that anything had ever burned in it. She looked down at her arms then, at where he had stroked them. The bruises were gone.
She did not get any sleep.
It seemed hours until he came back. It probably was. She tried to sleep. She really tried, but sleep would not come. She lay awake in her prison, listening for anything, any sound from outside. When she finally heard one, it was the sound of a foot stepping on to the marble. She had not even heard the mirror swing open.
She was on her feet in an instant. Back to a wall. She was not sure what she might be able to do to fight him, but she had to do something.
He seemed to sniff the air, savoring some odor. "How quickly you learn." He smiled.
It made no sense. He was mad. "What? Why are you doing this?"
He grinned, drawing closer to her with each word. "Karen," he said. "It is what I do."
He was almost upon her now, less than a hand's breath away. And he was still coming closer. "What are you going to do?" The last word came out sharp, high pitched. He had pressed her to the wall with his body. She could feel his erection through his clothing. Through her lack of clothing. Her head was turned to the side, away from him.
He leaned in, still further, taking her earlobe in his teeth for just a moment. A sharp, tiny bite. "I think you know exactly what I am going to do."
She never even saw him move. One moment he was pressed tight against her, pinning her to the wall. The next thing she knew his tongue was inside her mouth. He had a death grip on her wrists, pinning them up near her shoulders, and he was using his knee to push her legs apart. He was not trying hard. She knew from the ease with which he was doing the other things, if he wanted her legs apart, she would have had not choice in the matter. It wasn't that he wanted her legs spread. It was that he wanted her to fail at keeping them closed. She knew it, just at she knew that she was losing. That his tongue was getting deeper down her throat than she thought was humanly possible (though admittedly, she had slim to no experience with kissing, and no experience with actually frenching.) As much as she knew that her arms were useless, and that her leg muscles were screaming at her to give up. Wanting to scream herself, she surrendered. The instant that she stopped fighting, he stepped away, releasing her to crumple to the ground.
"Not bad," he said, smiling down at her. She half expected him to lick his lips. He seemed so cocky, so full of himself. "Get down on your hands and knees."
She stared up at him in shock. "What?"
His expression seemed disappointed, as though he had actually expected her to cooperate. "You heard me."
"You can't expect..."
He was on top of her in a heart beat, pushing her back up against the wall. There was a knife in his hand, though she had never seen him draw it, never seen him take a step toward the curtains, save when passing them to reach her. "I do expect," he whispered, as she tried not to breath. She could feel the cold metal pressed tight to her throat. "I will be expecting a great deal of you before your time here is concluded. But I thought we would start gently. Something relatively tame. If you would rather start with something more exotic..." He began moving the knife, pulling it along her flesh, somehow leaving only the barest of marks. Blood still flowed. She could see it in the millions of reflections the walls threw back at her. Forcing her to tilt her head upward, baring her wound, he ran his tongue along the cut. In a husky voice he said, "If you want to start with something more exotic, it can be arranged."
She shivered. She could feel tears running down her face. Let me go! She couldn't even bring herself to say the words. She was too terrified.
"You will behave, then?" he asked. Desperately, forlornly, she nodded. He back away from her. "Then do so."
She kept her eyes pinched tightly shut as she let her body obey. Lowered herself onto her hands and knees, she stood there, waiting. The tears were still running down her cheeks. She felt his hand first, warm and strong against her back, moving slowly along it. She fought the urge to scream. Worse. He said he could make it worse. If I play along, maybe he'll let me go. She was not sure how much she believed it. He had never actually said it. She suspected it was a lie. But she needed to believe something. Needed to believe there was hope.
She felt the weight on his palm shift, felt his other hand on her back. Felt his thighs press tight against hers. Thighs! Her eyes flew open. She had not heard him undress. Somehow, she thought she would have more time. Time to ready herself for what was about to happen. Time to come to grips. There was no time. The moment her eyes flew open she felt his shaft plunge into her.
The scream that was ripped from her body could have been mistaken for a death cry. He took no notice, pumping his full length into her, then drawing out, only to drive himself in again. She had known it would hurt, had read a dozen places about how the first time hurt. It was because something was torn inside. But not like this. She never imagined it feeling like this. She felt like her whole body was being torn apart, from the inside out. Like he was taking her soul and shredding it to ribbons. She could feel as chunks were being torn away. Feel little pieces of herself dying. Still he pumped.
The pain did not last forever, like she was afraid it would. As his thrusting continued, as her body became damp, the pain lessened. Lessened until she could feel something else beginning to start. She knew that sensation. Knew it from times alone in her room. From long secluded showers. It had no business here... It...
All the while she felt the shredding. Felt little pieces of herself drifting away. Torn loose and set adrift.
The orgasm took her with such force she wanted to die. It wasn't fair! Not here! Not like this! She didn't want this! She didn't!
She felt him pull out of her, still hard as a rock. Felt herself crumple to the floor. Felt his shadow fall over her as he looked down from above. Saw the shadow of him kneeling down in front of her. Taking her jaw in his hand and, turning her to face him, kissing her. It was not a violent kiss. It was not gentle, it was not chaste, but it was not violent. Still, as he kissed her, she could feel pieces of herself being torn away, being pulled into him.
Releasing her, he turned to leave. Just before stepping through his doorway he said, "Pleasant dreams." And was gone.
It took Karen forever to fall asleep, and once she did, it felt too fitful to provide any real rest. What had happened to her? Why? Why was this happening to her? The questions kept chasing themselves in her mind. She had been safe. She had been happy. Then her world had been destroyed. Completely destroyed. In the back of her mind, almost out of sight raced questions of Alan. Alan, her friend. Alan, who had betrayed her. Alan, who she could no longer recognize. Alan, who she had willingly gone to for help. Around they chased, in and out of conscious thought. in and out of fitful dreams. Dreams of a man she thought she knew becoming a viper.
Alan stood outside the chamber, arms loaded with a steel tray of food. It was time to go back in. Time to face her. He had given her hours to rest. Hours to brood. Would she be awake? Would she be asleep? Even if she was awake, would she still be alert enough to talk to him? Would she want to? Would he want her to? He was not used to indecision. Normally he would not have contemplated talking to his victim when he brought her her meal. He had decided when he started this technique that they should be allow to dine in peace. But he did not mean to disturb her. If he was honest with himself, he wanted to make sure she was alright. He had taken far more energy than he meant to, earlier last night. More than he would have thought possible and have her conscious when he left. He had known she was strong, but... He just wanted to make sure she was okay. Cursing himself a fool, he decided to leave it up to her. If she was asleep, he would leave the food and walk out. He would not disturb her. If she was awake, he would try to talk to her. He was acting so weak! It made him want to hit something.
Stepping into the room, he took it all in at a glance. She was lying on the floor, stretched out, breathing regularly. She was not exactly where he left her, but that was to be expected. It would have taken her a while to fall asleep. Added to that, he doubted that her dreams had been gentle. She was likely tossing and turning half the night. Gently, near silently, he lay the tray down on the floor. Not directly in front of her, but only a few feet away. She would be able to smell it from where she lay. Warm tomato soup. Fresh bread. A mug full of popcorn. A glass full of fruit juice. All things that he knew she had been fond of. Would likely have been delighted to be served in any other circumstances. Stepping away from the tray, he returned to the mirror, as silently as he had entered. Just before he left, he said, "I know you are awake, Karen. I can hear your heart racing. I have left you food. I will return in one hour to collect the dishes." Then he stepped through, sealing the doorway behind him.
Shocked, Karen opened her eyes.
For the dozenth time, Karen picked up the spoon. Brought it to her lips. Smelt the aroma. Put it down. She was so hungry. So hungry. She was not sure how long it had been since she had last eaten. Hours at least. The meal she had eaten with Billy. Eaten with that stupid stupid boy who had made her feel like a fool. But it had been her own fault, hadn't it? She had known that he didn't have the best reputation. Had known that he might at least try to kiss her. But she had not expected him to try to pull her into a back room. Had not expected him to try... anything like this. He had not been trying anything like this. She had leapt away from the path of a barking dog and into the jaws of a tiger. She was such an idiot.
She wanted to eat the food. She kept looking at it. Kept smelling it. But why? What was the point? Maybe if she didn't eat he would let her go? Maybe. She doubted it. More likely if she didn't eat she would grow too weak to care what he did anymore. That had some appeal. But how long would it take? How many days of smelling fresh food sitting here and growing cold. It was fresh bread! He had baked! He could have slipped anything into it. He could have stirred anything into the soup. He could have sprinkled anything onto the popcorn. Even if she had wanted to trust the food, she could not imagine keeping it down, what with her suspicions of what would happen when he came back. Her suspicions! She didn't have any idea what would happen when he came back. She had not expected him to leave so demurely when he brought the food. What was he planning for her?
When he opened the door again, she was still sitting there, looking at the food. It was untouched.
He came and sat down across from her. "Karen." His voice was sad.
When she looked up at him, she was surprised to see he was dressed. She thought he looked worried. Worried! Why would he be worried about her?
"Karen, you need to eat something."
She blinked. She thought it was just a gesture of confusion, but then she felt the tears beginning to slide down her cheeks. "Why?" she asked. "Why do you care if I'm eating or not?" What did you put in my food?
He reached out with his hand and brushed a tear off of her cheek. She hardly pulled away at all, but sat there, stiff as a stone. She was so strong. He admired her in so many ways. "I care if you eat. Why did you not eat the food?"
She took a deep breathe. May as well tell him. May as well get it out in the open. What was the worse he was going to do? Stop bringing her food? "I..." She meant to keep her voice steady, but felt it choke up as soon as she began to speak. She tried again. "I..." She couldn't say it. "I want to go home. Let me go." Her voice sounded so small, so fragile.
"You know I won't do that." He did not look angry as he said it, nor sorry. More resigned.
Not can't, won't, her mind told her. He's being honest, at least. "Why not? Why won't you let me go?"
He seemed to ignore her question. "Why won't you eat?"
She sighed. He was not going to to answer her. She gave up. "You eat some."
He smiled, but shook his head. "I'm already full."
She glared at him. "Then so am I," she lied. Her stomach betrayed her, choosing that moment to growl.
He sighed, as though speaking to a stubborn child. "Karen, you have not eaten in over twenty-four hours. You are famished. Please eat the food."
"What did you put in it?"
Light dawned. No wonder she was being so stubborn. "I did not drug the food. It is all safe to eat." When she looked at him incredulously, he added, "I drugged you to get you into this room, yes. But that was only because I could not think of any way to get you down here without you fighting me, if you were conscious. Now that you are here, I have no reason to drug you."
She wanted to scream. Instead, she whispered. "I'm supposed to trust you?"
He blinked at her. Calm, unperturbed. "I am not lying."
She was not sure what to say. She studied him, looking into his eyes. She looked down at her food. She looked up at him. Then away at the wall, at her own reflection. As though speaking to herself, she said, "It's cold anyway."
"I'll heat it for you."
She looked back at him then. He had not been angry at any of her questions so far. He had ignored some, but he had not grown angry. "How long am I going to be down here?" He had said down earlier.
He closed his eyes. He sounded tired, sad, when he answered. "A week, maybe."
Her heart skipped. A week? Did he mean... Was he going to let her go? Then why would he look so sad? "What happens in a week?"
In the same flat tones he answered, "In a week you will likely be dead."
Dead. It hit her like a hammer blow. Dead. Not free. Dead. "Why?" If he was feeding her... If he wasn't drugging the food...
"Because I will have killed you." He paused. She looked dazed. "Can we talk of something else? I did not want to upset you. I..." He let the sentence die. She was giving him a glare that could have boiled away the soup on its own merit.
Her voice nearly left her. Nearly. "You," she began. "You did not want to upset me? You drug me! You drag me down here! You strip me. You rape me! You abandon me down here like some forgotten toy. You tell me that in a week I'll be dead, and that you are going to kill me! But you don't want to upset me! What the HELL would upset me about that!" She wasn't thinking. Her voice rose with each sentence, gaining volume and force as she went. By the time she reached the word "upset" she was on her feet. By the time she reached the end, she discovered that she had hurtled the tray of food at him. He had not bothered to dodge. She threw herself at the far wall, as far from him as she could get, and waited to be struck.
He rose slowly to his feet. He was angry, but not with her. Brushing the food off of his clothes, he picked up the tray and turned to leave. He could just see her reflection, directly behind him. It looked shocked. Not bothering to turn around, he said, "I will bring you something fresh to eat. I will also bring you a chamber pot."
When he stepped outside, his first action was to slam the tray into the wall of the stairwell. It crumpled like paper. How could he have been such a fool! Of coarse she hated him! Of coarse she would see any action he took to comfort her as a trap. He should have thought of that. Should have seen it. Not that he could think of anything he would have done differently given the chance. She still would not have eaten the food, if he had acted impersonal. Would not have eaten it, and he might not have found out why. At least now he knew. And maybe now she would actually eat the next meal he brought. Maybe. It was worth a try. Glancing at the sheet of crumpled metal in his hands, he walked up the stairs. He kept spare trays. It looked like he would need one.
Karen tried to keep her voice steady. "What are you going to do?"
It wasn't like she couldn't guess. It had been a day and a half. Maybe. She was guessing. He had brought her more food as he had promised. And the chamber pot. Some time later he had returned and taken both away. She had given up and eaten. The next meal had brought her, he did not bother to say anything, leaving her to her own thoughts. She had been beginning to think she would go mad down here, with nothing to do but wonder when he would come, what he would do, when he would strike. She had fallen asleep after a time. She woke up here. Still in the chamber, there was no mistake. But now she knew what the pipes had been for. On a clear patch of floor, equal distance from a wall and the column, stood a frame made of pipes. It was stronger than she would have thought at first glance. She knew it was. She had been trying to pull free since she first woke up, suspended from it.
Only her arms were secured, above her head, though not pulled tight. She had been hanging here, waiting, for the last fifteen minutes, while Alan wandered around her, occasionally striking his free palm with the handle of the whip he held. Watching her. Circling her. This time he was nude. Asking what was going on had been more than redundant, but she was tired of waiting. She wanted this over with.
He stopped his circling, in front of her. Close enough that she could see the individual hairs on his chest. She felt the end of the whip handle under her chin, tilting her head upward, to look him into the face. The look on his face was... considering. "Karen," he said, as though speaking to the air, "I do not believe you appreciate my advances."
She could have laughed. She considered kicking him.
"And so I will give you a bit of a choice. This time. This time only, mind. I will not touch you, not in that manner, unless you ask me to."
She stared up at him. He was insane. He was completely insane if he thought she was going to ask to be raped. Then he smiled down at her, and her blood turned cold.
"In the mean time, however, I don't want you to grow bored, or think that I am not paying attention to you. Open you mouth."
She obeyed, stunned. The look in his eyes. The look in his eyes, mixed with that smile. She did not know what he planned, but she knew that she wanted to run. Knew that he really had been being gentle last time. That this time he would not be. She felt more than saw him placing a gag in her mouth. A gag? If she was wearing a gag, how was he expecting her to "confess her willingness to be attacked," or whatever it was he wanted. She was at a loss. Then she felt the first whip stroke.
It cut across her back, shoulder to butt cheek. She screamed, flinching away from the blow, but had hardly had time to inhale again when a second lash followed it. Then a third. A fourth. Again and again the lash fell. After an eternity, after her back was so numb with pain she was not sure that she even had a back any more, it occurred to her. Bracing her legs, she thrust her hips backwards, toward where he was standing. There was enough give in the ropes tying her arms to let her do that. The next lash did not fall.
She felt him untying the gag. The words were out of her mouth before she could think, before she could let herself think. "Please. Please just do it. Do it, and let me down. Please."
Her heart doubled its beat when she saw him, in the mirror, shaking his head. He retied her gag. Leaning in close, he whispered in her ear, "Not what I wanted to hear, Karen."
She had thought it was bad before. Thought she could not stand another stroke. This time he did not restrain his arm. This time he did not limit himself to her back. Her stomach. Her breasts. Her legs. Her crotch. All of them stung with welts as large and red as those she was sure decorated her back. Her back she was sure must be raw. It continued forever. It continued for hours. She kept trying to think. What had she said wrong? What did he want to hear? She kept trying to thrust out her hips, to get another chance to speak, but it did not come. Instead the whip continued to fall. If anything, harder each time she tried to get his attention. She held out as long as she could.
When finally her leg muscles would not support her any more, instead letting her collapse, hanging, from the frame, he stopped. He removed her gag. Choked with tears, she begged him, "No more. Please. Anything. But no more." He untied her from the frame and she felt him carry her limp form to the floor.
The marble was refreshingly cool against her back. She felt him lay her down. Felt him climb on top of her. Slide into her. She did nothing to fight him. It was not as painful as it was last time. It was nothing compared to the pain of the whip. All of her thoughts were too tangled in gratitude that he had stopped lashing her to think about anything else. To think about the tears running down her face, or how he was gently nibbling her neck. Not biting, just nibbling. She was too exhausted to do anything. To do anything but feel it washing over her. But she felt it all.
She felt him thrusting, strong and steady. Felt his palms gripping her shoulders, not painfully, just holding her still. Felt his mouth dancing over her skin. Felt him pulling at her. Pulling her inside himself. Trying to empty her, even as he thrust into her. She realized, distantly that she had felt it before, that first night, but had not realized what it was. She had never had sex before his first attack, but she was sure this was not supposed to be part of it. The rest felt like she imagined sex would have. The hands, his mouth, his... But this pulling was something else. Something else happening at the same time. She didn't care. He stopped using the whip, and she didn't care. He could do anything to her, so long as he didn't put her up there again.
She felt the orgasm wash over her with detachment. It was pleasant. As much as she did not want to be here, did not want to be under him, she could not deny that it was pleasant. She watched him pull away from her, and then stand to begin disassembling the pipe frame. A piece of her noticed that he was still erect. That he did not seem to care. He was smiling as he put away his props, lovingly running the whip through his fingers before returning it to its shelf. When he had finished, he closed everything up, then turned and knelt down next to her head. Running his fingers through her hair, as lovingly as he had stroked the whip, he smiled at her, and said, "Thank you for the invitation."
He rose then, and left. He had not been as solid as at first, but he had been far from limp. Lying there, too exhausted to move, Karen's mind raced.
"Why do you have a reflection?"
He stopped half way though the doorway, and laughed. He was still chuckling as he set the tray down and closed the door behind him. Seating himself across from her, he answered, smiling, "I'm not a vampire, Karen."
The look she gave him defined disbelief.
"I'm an Incubus." He motioned for her to try her food. Steak today, though he had cut it into bites upstairs. Mashed potatoes. A salad of roman lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers, with peppercorn dressing on the side.
She took a bite, and chewed as she thought of a response. She had not exactly expected him to admit it, but she really had not expected him to say he was something else. "I thought that was a type of vampire."
He shook his head. He had said more than he meant, but she had caught him off guard. He had expected her to still be asleep. She could not have slept more than eight hours. He had expected her to need at least twelve hours before she would be able to sit up unaided, what with how much he had taken. He had meant to feed her this visit, but had not expected her to be able to interact. He really had not expected her to notice him feeding from her earlier. "No," he said.
She ate some more, waiting. Milling. When he made no move to volunteer more information, she asked, "So what's the difference? Beyond you having a reflection?"
Alan smiled. She was so stubborn. She had always been stubborn, he thought, remembering when they first met. "For one thing I don't feed off of blood." He paused, crinkling his brow. "Actually, they don't feed off of blood, either. It's a commonly misunderstanding."
She nearly choked on her forkful of mash potatoes. Coughing, she said, "You've met many?"
He shrugged. "I've killed a few."
She wanted to laugh. Surrendering, she did so. When he gave her a quizzical look, she said, "You're a vampire hunter? What, you don't like someone competing with you for food?"
He shook his head, answering, "Not a hunter. When I happen upon one, I offer to kill it, but it is usually happy to die. That's why they bleed people. They are trying to feed off of them, trying to take death from them. Sometimes its just that they are jealous that the victim can die. It's an old cycle that they all try because they think they heard somewhere that it might work. I never met one who actually succeeded though." He shrugged, turning to look at his reflection. "Mind, if it worked, I supposed the poor soul would die, and I wouldn't meet them anyway."
She swallowed a bite of her steak, never tasting it. "When did you last see one?"
He shrugged, wrinkling his brow in thought. "Seventeen hundreds, I think. Prussia, I believe."
She dropped her fork, pale. Even when she had thought... Even when she had toyed with the idea of him not being human, she had not really thought about it. Not thought about what it would mean. Seventeen hundreds. He thought. "How old are you?"
He looked at her, seemed to look through her. "I don't really know. Older than I look." He smiled, as though to try to soften the words.
She wanted to choke. He couldn't be serious. Couldn't be... But she had felt him feed. She had felt it. And the whole leaving... leaving before... She may not have had sex before this whole mess started, but she knew a few things. One of them was that a male, in his position, did not leave willingly after sex before... before... yeah. Before that. She couldn't even make herself think it. She turned red.
"Something on your mind?"
She tried to steer her mind back on topic. "What do you feed on?"
"Sex."
Her heart almost stopped. He said it so casually, like it was not big deal. Like it was everyday. "Wouldn't it be easier to buy a girl flowers and chocolates? Sure you're guarantied results down here but..." She went pale. She couldn't believe she had just said that.
He smiled, though. "Wrong type."
She looked at him, more confused than ever.
"Wrong type of sex. Wrong type of incubus. If you want flowers and chocolates you want one of my brothers, or maybe one of my sisters." He seemed suddenly sad, after he said it.
Karen did not notice the change at first, the sobering. She was too busy being shocked. "There are more of you?"
"There were." There was no missing the sorrow in his voice this time. "They are all gone now."
She stared at him then. Watched him rising and turn to leave. "Alan," she called. "Alan, I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "Don't be," he said as he opened the door. "You only have a few days left. Don't waste them in sorrow for the dead." The mirror swung to, sealing shut.
Upstairs, Alan collapsed on the bed, wishing he could get drunk. The mage who had made him had been such a bastard. Why couldn't he get drunk! They were all gone. All of his family was gone. If they weren't dead, then then wanted him to think they were. All of his cause was dead. Mages like the one who had made them. All of the mages dead. His whole point in going on was dead. The only thing that had kept him going recently was Karen. Watching her grew. Watching her live. And now he was about to kill her, and he would have nothing left, and that bastard of a mage had not even made it such that he could get drunk. Or cry...
It had all started so long ago that he couldn't begin to count. He thought it was in the dark ages, but then, everywhere had a dark ages. That didn't narrow it, really. He remembered opening his eyes for the first time. Seeing his maker. Seeing his family. There were eight of them, plus the maker. Looking at them, he could see both their seemings, and how they were made. All of them were carved of solid stone, alabaster, four shaped like men, four like women. Matched sets. The two with thick golden hair also had emerald green eyes. Emeralds for eyes, he saw. Wavy red hair topped heads with sapphire blue eyes. A woman stood across from him, pale as cream, with hair as black as the night sky, and eyes of onyx to match. He knew instinctively that he was her twin. Lastly his eyes fell on the children. Truthfully they were the same age as he and the others, but instead of being shaped as adults, they were small. Delicate young faces with ruffled mud colored hair stared back at him from bloodshot eyes. Ruby eyes. They all looked at each other, then at their master.
It had begun well enough. In the beginning he had not know that people were scared of them. In the beginning he had known so little. It was their job to harvest energy to bring back to their master. Their job to help him, to take care of him. They did such with pride. They did not know that he did not need them. That they were merely toys. Years passed and the villagers became more and more angry. Their maker took to capturing the leaders of the mobs and then tossing them to his toys for food. That was the first that they realized that they were feared. Then, as more time passed, the maker stopped sending them out. He would only toss food to them. He kept them pinned like animals. Still, they obeyed, because he was their maker. He was not a good man, but he was their maker.
It all ended when he killed the girl. The youngest. The ruby eyed. He decided he wanted to play a game, he said. He drained her until she had almost nothing left. Nothing that made her alive, only stone. Then, leaving her lying there, starved, he ordered his guards to feed her. One after another after another. It seemed dozens fed her that night, but never long enough for her to take control of the feeding. She had too little of her self left. She was being force fed. Then, after hours of feedings, she died. She exploded. She broke apart into the dust she was caste from, too charged to even hold her shape. And the maker laughed.
It was not the villagers who rebelled. It was the constructs. They tore through their chains. They torn down the walls. When they reached their master, they tore him to pieces. Thousands of damp, meaty pieces. But it did not bring her back. They swore that night, over his remains, that if this was what magic was, if this was what mages did, that they would destroy all mages. Hunt them down and destroy them, in memory of their sister. For the next hundred years if need be, or the next two hundred, they would never stop hunting.
That had been a thousand years ago. A thousand years of hunting. And now they were all gone. And his family was all gone. And his friend was about to wither and die. No one had ever lasted more than three feedings. And he would be alone. All alone, again. And without any mages, there would not even be anyone capable of killing him. Capable of putting him out of his misery of existence. He so wanted to cry.
Karen lay awake. What was he? What had he meant, just before he left? The bit about wrong type. She tried to think about the little she knew. The little she had on hand. He wasn't human. It was hard to think about, but given the evidence, seemed pretty obvious. He fed on sex. He fed on a particular type of sex? What could that mean? How many different kinds of sex were there? Suddenly, she thought about the curtains. Four cabinets, with four very different sets of contents. Four different flavors of eating, maybe? She certainly could not imagine the feathers and incense being used at the same time as the barbed wire. Suddenly she stopped. That was it. The black curtain. Everything that he had used, when actually eating, had come from the same case, behind the black curtain. Black like his eyes. What about the other curtains? The other incubi, maybe? She could imagine the person who used feathers and a silk mask with flowers and chocolates. Why, oh why, couldn't she have made friends with the guy who used oils and herbs?
Maybe because he didn't need you. The thought was gone before she registered it. She was asleep.
The next day was far less eventful. Alan left Karen her food without a word, then returned and claimed the remains in the same manner. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, to ask him to talk, but he seemed so cold. So distant. She was sure it was related to the night before. To some memory that she had not meant to dredge up. She did not know what to say. If all of his family were gone, why did he keep reminders of them down here?
Time for the next feeding came. She waited patiently while he opened the cabinet. Watched him take out the knives. A half dozen of them. He didn't have that many hands. What did he expect to do with that many knifes? Did she really want to know? Watching him turn each, to glint in the light, she realized that they were not all identical. One was thinner than the others. One was rippled. One had a oily glean along its surface. One had the very slightest of barbs along its edge. She stopped looking at that point. What was he going to do? She didn't want to know.
"You've been very quiet, Karen."
She swallowed, continuing to hold her tongue. What did he expect her to say? It was a little late for help help let me go. He had already proven last time that he could make her submit to whatever he wanted. Beyond that, from them talking, she had figured out that he wasn't just doing this to be a bastard. He actually felt like he need to do this. What was she supposed to say?
"Talk to me, Karen. Let me know you are still alive." He had known it would happen. It had taken longer than he expected, but he had known. She was fading. Growing too drained to interact. He wondered what he should do. He could just end it for her. Snuff her out with one of the knives, rather than let her waste to death. Or try to finish it. Drain her until her body turned to so much dust. Or he could just continue like this. Every time he fed, because he was supposed to feed off of the discomfort mixed with the sex, he had to cause pain. He had not realized until he created this room that if he was to feed off of the same person more than once, that they had to be in greater pain than the previous time. Had not known, and it had not really mattered. Not mattered to him at all until now. She was strong. If he was not careful she might live through this feeding. Would live through it, but in what condition? Could he bring himself to cause her even more pain than tonight? Or would she be left, to wither away, barely alive, wasting to nothing. He needed to kill her. For her own good. But first, he needed to feed.
She felt the knife against her throat first, and then his lips upon her mouth. The strength with which he kissed her surprised her. Normally he waited to show that much intimacy until she was wanting to curl into a ball. But not this time. This time he started out kissing her as though he wanted to swallow her whole, as though he thought he would never see her again. She did not feel a flicker of feeding during it. Why?, she thought, but then screamed. The knife had cut across her chest.
She tried to push away from him, hands slick with her own blood as it flowed. Still his face was pushed against hers, his lips locked to hers. Pain laced through her body again and again as he struck. Down her sides, across her back, into her stomach. She tried to push away. Tried to scream. Tried to do anything. She was pushed up against one of the walls now, staining it with her blood. Still, his tongue danced within her mouth. It was wrong. It was wrong and she needed to make him stop. He was going to kill her! He was going to... She felt it then. Felt him begin to feed. Felt him beginning to tear away pieces of her. She did the only thing she could think of, the only thing that might get his attention. Focusing on that flow of self, she pulled back. Pulled for all she was worth. Then she passed out.
She came to slowly at first. What a bizarre dream! Then she looked around. It was real. It was all real. The knives were on the floor and she was caked in blood and it had all been real. Gingerly she touched her side, and pulled her hand away, amazed. There was no wound. Moving her shoulders, she pushed herself upright, to her feet. She was whole? But all of this blood? How was she whole? She looked around for Alan.
She found him opposite her, hidden by the column. She found what she thought was him. She collapsed to her knees beside a statue of Alan, a statue of him, nude, terrified, trying to claw his way out of one of the walls. She stared at it for a long time before she could even think. The wall. It was the wall that he always walked out of. He must have been trying to open the door. Why couldn't he? Was she trapped down here now as well?
Reaching out her hand for the mirror, she felt a tingling along her arm. A jolt running from her palm up her arm and then down into her core. Into the place that Alan was always tearing pieces from. Somehow she was not surprised when she saw the mirror swing open. Not surprised, but not happy. What had she done? She had killed him. She had killed him and now...
She felt the warm glow in her palm, from the mirror. Felt it, and followed it, tracing it back. Tracing it to all of the little sparks of energy within her. All of the little sparks that he had taken from her. All of the little sparks that were left over from before he began feeding on her. Everything that he had been was inside her. All of it. It made her feel so alive. It made her want to thrown up.
She found it after an eternity of searching. She had not even known what she was looking for. Had not even known she was searching. But she knew when she found it. Floating free in the essence of herself was a spark unlike the others. This one was not raw. It had been woven. It had been polished. It had been turned and shaped and pulled and warped and made into something other than a spark. It was Alan, and it was whole.
Pulling that single spark into her hands took more effort than she would have dreamed. Once it was in her hands she had no idea what to do with it. She tried laying her hands on him and pushing. It did nothing. She tried to pass her hands into him. Nothing happened, save a moment of terror when her body tried to heal her bruised knuckles and she was afraid it would use the spark in her palms. But it did not. It seemed that whatever was letting her control this knew that she wanted him safe. Wanted him whole. But the healing gave her an idea.
It took time to push the statue away from the wall, so that she could sit in front of it. He was not light and she was not as strong as she liked to pretend. Though she thought she might now be stronger than she had been. She did not want to think about that. She wanted him well. All she want was for him to be well. She would think about the rest later. Moving the spark from her hands to her lips, she pushed her mouth up against his. Up against the carving of his scream. Kissed him as best she could, pushing the spark inside him. Feeling it flow. Her cheeks were wet with tears when she felt him turn to flesh under her hands. Felt him take in a breath, and scream.
She was thrown to the far side of the room. Looking up at him, she saw terror, complete terror on his face.
He had felt it begin. Just as he began to feed, just as he had been confident that she was in enough pain for him to begin, he had felt it. Felt her begin to drain him. As a construct he was designed to be drained. It was what he was built for. To hold energy until a mage needed it. To hold life essence until a biomancer needed. But there were no more biomancers. There were no more mages at all. But he could feel himself being drained, drained away, into Karen.
Even as he saw her collapse he knew it wouldn't stop. He knew he could kill her, could crush her as she lay there. But it might not work. She was a biomancer. She was healing. She might well heal any wound he gave faster than he could administer it. The strength within her terrified him. His master had never been this strong. And she was draining him to nothing. He tried to run. Tried to escape. But there was not enough left in him to open the door. Not enough... Everything went black.
The next thing he knew he was being kissed. He was taking in a breath. He knew that scent! He screamed, throwing himself as far away from her as he could get. She was going to kill him. She was going to destroy him for everything he had done to her. She was going to shatter him into a thousand pieces to be scattered to the wind as payment for what he had done to her... Slowly he realized that she was not doing anything to him. Slowly he realized that he was not in pain. That he was not being destroyed. That he was alive again. And whole. He stopped screaming.
Karen stared at him, wanting to curl into a ball herself. She had hurt him. She didn't know what she had done wrong, but then she didn't know what she had done. She had hurt him, and now he would hate her, and she did not know of any way to undo what she had started. He was still screaming, still flailing his arms at the air, trying to fight something off. Trying to get away. And she was helpless to aid him. When he stopped screaming, she looked up at him, tears running down her face. He was the first to speak.
"Why am I alive?"
Her heart leapt. He could talk! He was sane! "I didn't want to hurt you. I just wanted you to stop hurting me. Did I do it right? Are you whole again?" She reached out a hand toward him, and pulled away when he flinched.
"Why would you want me whole again? What are you going to do to me?" His voice was angry, bitter. He had spent so long fighting to destroy them. So long killing every mage he could find, and never realized what she was. Never saw it, and now he could not kill her. Could not bring himself to do it and had lost the opportunity even if he could.
She looked at him confused. What was she going to do to him? What? "Alan? Alan what are you talking about?"
He growled at her. A low guttural sound that carried into his words. "My name isn't Alan. Don't you get it? I am Alabaster. That is what I had tried to say, so long ago. We aren't given names. We are things."
She stared at him shocked. Alabaster. She supposed that was what the statue had been made of. "Your name is Alan, silly. You've been Alan as long as I've known you." She paused to think. "If you weren't named Alan before I knew you, then oh well. I don't think you can deny it at this point."
He let his hackles down slightly, confused. She was letting him keep his name? She was a mage. She was evil. She would destroy him, and everything that he cared about... She was Karen. She was everything that he cared about. He couldn't think. Too much. It was too much. He put his head into his hands and began to rock. When he felt her arms around him, trying to comfort him, he stayed that way for a time. Stayed that way until he thought he could look at her without shaking.
Karen did not know what she expected him to say when he finally stopped. She had been holding him, cooing to him, trying to comfort him, for at least an hour. When he finally stopped, he looked up, into her face, and said, "What is it you want of me, mistress?"
She blinked at him, confused. What was he talking about? He still wasn't making any sense. "Alan, what's wrong? Why are you acting like this? Did I hurt you? Did I put you back wrong? What do I need to do to make you better?"
He wanted to cry. Make him better? He did feel a little different. Something must have twisted when he was outside this body. He did not know what. She wanted to make him better... "I will try to change any way I can."
"Damn it!" She shouted at him, trying to shake him by the shoulders. She was surprised to feel him move. "I don't want you to change. I want my friend back. I want you to be Alan again. I love him." The last words were whispered. She had not realized she meant to say them, but she knew they were true even as they left her mouth. She loved him. The look on his face told her all she needed to know of his answer.
Alan stared at her, shocked, smile slowly spreading over his face. She wanted him. She wanted Alan. Not a tool. Not a means to an end. Not a toy she could shape into whatever she wanted. She could make him into whatever she wanted. That was how much power she held. That was how much he could taste in that first attack. She could do anything. And she wanted him. Alan.
He discovered he could cry.